With My Heart and Soul
by Inequity's Patron
Summary: The world felt like a tornado of happiness, and I was right there, in the isolated epicenter where the happiness never reached me.
1. Act I: The Brother & the Boy

**Author's Ubiquitous Angst Zone:**

**I cry. I present to you yet another failed fic.**

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**Act I:**

**The Brother & the Boy**

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The explosive howls and cheers of the foliated crowd and the constant screeches of rubber against the wood-lined floor formed an incoherent rapture of an ear-splitting noise. This haphazard dominated the entire edifice. However, the melody that played in my ears was something entirely different – quite more profound and vaguely, I daresay, _mind-blowing. _It was the ignited melody of clashing determination. Two teams faced off, each with five distinct, yet united wills that persevere to only one end: To win.

Clad in white, each individual member released their limiters, set out to pulverize the opposing team. Skill was this team's most reliable ally. After all, it was something innate to each and every one of them, bonded to each member of the team by the water of the womb – individual _skill_. The members seemed like beasts, released to hunt their natural prey; released to claim victory.

The team in black apparel specialized greatly in team play. Each and every single one of the pawns adorned the ability of the other, against the adamant attacks of the enemy. Every member depended one another, never allowing themselves to pull the other down into the void of probable failure. Trust was imminent within the members' eyes – the trust that they would win, _together. _It was truly admirable.

Both teams wished for only one thing. To achieve this, the other must persevere to strip the adversary of the solitary chance of winning. And persevere they did.

The unstoppable force met the solitary member of its ilk. How? They destroyed the shackles of logic that bound them within their separate worlds, so _they_, the beings that transcend the capabilities of the normal man, can finally engage in war – a war that the Gods, themselves, had been too eager to wage.

The buzzer rang. It marked the beginning of the fourth and final quarter. And with each moment that passed as sand through the hourglass of time, both teams scored and defended with their very wills that yearned for a taste of the forbidden fruit that is victory. Their scores, the sole verdicts of who is to claim the said fruit, never failed to catch up to one another. Every time the white scored, the black never fell back, nor did it rise up, and vice versa. The two teams equally matched. Then again, aren't the forces in terms of worldly power?

It made me wonder whether the Gods had made a mistake.

"Nii-chan, hey. Nii-chan!" A child's voice emerged from my throat, but no surprise registered. It seemed natural. It took no longer than a moment for me to realize that the voice was my own, albeit a few ages off. It was my body, yet it wasn't – I felt like a mere observer within it. I could only watch; control was no longer in my hands – it was in the child's.

"Nii-chan! Watch the game, Nii-chan. It's really great," I looked at my brother. My eyes droop ever so slightly in mild disappointment, as I register his closed eyes.

_He's sleeping, _I thought. _Just when the game is at its highest peak…_

I wanted him to watch with me. Wasn't that the main reason on why we went here? To bond?

"Nii-chan, wake up," I him; my tone, with a hint of annoyance. I rattle his resting figure, asking him to wake, but his eyes remained closed.

I hated it.

I puffed my cheeks, and sighed in utter disapproval. Crossing my arms together, I watched the game by myself. I lean my head on my brother's chest.

The game progressed smoothly _– too smoothly_. Both teams struggled to make fast breaks that never seemed to come through. The scores failed to widen in gap. I could feel the two teams beg for a miracle that would never seem to come.

I watched attentively. That is, until darkness seems to seep through my vision – spreading, and spreading.

Soundless. Pitiless. Endless.

Darkness seemed to consume me.

Then, a flash of light burst within my eyes. However, I don't wince – In fact there was no pain, not even a mere sting.

But I did feel like an accused under the detective's lamp – exposed. Dread found its way within my blood. I could hear it flow over the sound of my wheezing lungs. I realized: I was running.

From what exactly?

Even I, myself, didn't know the answer. However, being afraid was more than enough as a reason to run. It felt like I was being chased down by a monster. Whatever the apparition was, I wasn't planning on being caught any time soon.

Alas, my body did not help. It was as though lead had replaced all my muscles, and iron had materialized as my insides. Fatigue grasped me by the throat. My pace slowed.

_Oh, god. No. _I pleaded. Adrenaline no longer served its purpose, as my body comes to an abrupt stop. Fatigue took its toll. Footsteps grew louder, stronger, _closer_.

I could tell that there was only the end.

Warmth spreads on my face, as my knees give. I hit the ground like a ragdoll abandoned by its most beloved master. The heat seemed to extensity itself even more, as yet another realization dawned on me: I was crying.

Heat that was later replaced the cold sweat, as a hand came in contact with my skin.

_It caught me._

A scream penetrates through the dense blanket of silence. Suddenly, everything is out of focus. The scenery blurred, then focused, then blurred even more, until there was only a sensation – a sensation of falling. Not a moment longer, I land, as my eyes flash open to two caramel-colored eyes that looked down on me with disconnected worry.

_I was dreaming… _I realize.

I could still make out the scream. It sounded like a shrill cry of terror. Not long after do I register that the scream is none other than mine. I cease to do so at once, making stray liquid stray upon my trachea. A cough from me ruptures the short-lived silence.

My lungs heave, as my eyes dart everywhere, until finally landing on the pastel blur before me.

The first thing that register is his auburn toned hair that falls nicely above his eyes, adorning his chiseled, yet soft features. While his lips – his lips that have the lightest blush of pink that are pursed tightly together. He has thick eyebrows that mirrored alertness, yet friendly at the same time. However, it is his eyes – his eyes are what catch my attention. They are brown, like his hair, but a few shades lighter – like caramel. But more importantly, they are _kind_.

This person is the epitome of _warmth_.

I hear him clear his throat over the continuous duet of my heaving lungs and pounding heart. My eyes look into his, and I perceive a portion of this bright person's soul, and I could tell that he could also do so to mine.

No pair of lips moves, allowing our eyes to immerse within a conversation of visions and pure emotion. Each glance holds a battalion of formless words, and each pupillary movement harbors an utter-less reply. A conversation worth hundreds stretches across the breath's distance between us. We speak years with merely a stare.

I'm afraid that I might have spoken too much.

I break the eternal glance – something that I regret too soon. Pulling myself up, I allow my fingers to brush through my hair – a failed attempt to tame my wild mane. My eyes trace over his clothes: a Seirin varsity jacket. Aida must have sent him. Smart, smart girl – sending someone I barely know practically _ensures _agreement. After all, refusal brings forth disapproval, and people can't help but _aim_ to please.

I begin a conversation that can never reach even just the soles of the previous one, "Hi."

_Hi? HI? GODDAMN IT. You have this normal vocabulary make up, and you choose the most awkward amongst the most awkward first words? HI? _ I mentally face-palm.

"Hi," he replies, as his lips curve into a sheepish grin. "You scared me there."

I can't help but return his grin with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry- I- w-wasn't really-"

"It's fine," he replies a tad bit too early. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I am."

"What did you dream about? Ah, you don't have to-" He stutters briefly, confirming that his inquiry is but a slip of the tongue. The question is certainly imposing in aspects comprehendible, yet strangely, I feel no annoyance, since I, myself, do not know the answer. I have no recollection of the dream what-so-ever. I shrug my shoulders.

The brunette motions for his pocket, attempting to scoop something out. In his hand was a whitewashed kerchief. He offers it to me, an offer, in which I kindly decline with a, "You don't have to. I have my own."

Pulling out my own handkerchief, I wipe the stagnant liquid off my face.

"Aida sent you?" I ask for confirmation. He nods briefly. A sigh finds its way out of my mouth, as I wonder what I got myself into.

"Fix yourself up. I'll wait," his eyes, half lidded, but not lazy as he says so.

I allow my sight to venture towards nowhere in particular, as I begin to comb my hair. They happen to take interest in this boy's hands. The kerchief seems unusually miniature within his long fingers' grasp. I notice how his knuckles pale as he clutches the piece of cloth tighter, and how the color reverts back when the no longer puts in pressure. The years of training weighs on the tips of his calloused fingers that are marked with faded scars, signifying his hard work, as well as his resolve. His hands, like the rest of him, are _beautiful_.

I don't often discover myself immersed in just any individual's visage, let alone a boy I barely know. However, something about this boy is _different_. I shift my gaze towards his general direction, and just- _stared. _He had a sheepish grin plastered across his face, and eyes that smiled along.

_He's kind._

_But, he wears a mask._

His smile, his air, his eyes, _his very essence_ – I could tell that each and every one of it conceives genuine sincerity, and yet, a façade. He's a walking contradiction – _nature's irony_. This faint eureka brings forth the realization that I didn't actually know _anything _about this boy. Heck, I don't even know his name!

_I want to know._

"My name is Mizushima Maiko," I address him. "What's yours?"

I didn't quite notice before, but his voice is distinct. It's like hearing honey, gradually dripping, along with its natural bittersweet essence.

"Kiyoshi Teppei."

The gymnasium stands proudly parallel to the sides of the school's main building. The edifice, albeit its overall structure is not bigger than the gym located at my previous school, is indeed impressive for a school that doesn't specialize in sports. As we proceed further, the main entrance cleared, along with a fuming brunette, and a somber raven. They are engaged in some kind of intense conversation.

The second Kiyoshi and I enter the vicinity of the gymnasium, we are greeted by Aida's infamous scolding, the basketball team's captain not falling far behind. She pulls me through the double doors of the gym, as she explains what I'm required to do. Apparently, the facilitator's job doesn't end only with seeing that the game goes smoothly, but it also covers setting up the gym for the game. I begin to pull the plastic benches at each end of the gym, and test the necessary equipment, as Aida discusses with the team.

Not long after, the opposing team arrives. The game begins.

The whistle's cry rips through the web of silence, signaling the two teams to face the opposing, and bow. I could see undeterred eyes flash with determination in Seirin's side, as they lower their heads. It's same for their adversaries, but not at all as strong. The reason as to why is quite understandable. Seirin is now facing off with a team that's known to be stronger than they are. However, I can hear each and every member of Seirin's team declaring that they would attain victory with a hushed tone – a determined whisper conveyed by their wills.

An image, like this one, flashes before my eyes. Albeit briefly, the image strikes with a punch of nauseating nostalgia, along with a threatening migraine. I plop myself on one of the benches meant for the spectators, as I continue to peer at the advancements of the game.

_What the hell?_

For a long moment, all that could be heard are screeches of rubber on wood, constant heaves and hos, and, of course, the melody of conflicting determination. _The redolence screeches._

The battle is intense. The opposing team is on defense, while Seirin on offense. _The images haunt._

Tables turn and tides change, until it is down to the last twenty seconds. _Time burns._

I feel disconnected. The nausea and pain has long dulled into but distant sensation. It feels as though I'm looking through the eyes of someone different entirely – like a foreigner in my own land. Everything felt unreal… _out of reach_. And yet, I continue to watch.

It's Seirin's ball. Hyuuga goes for a three pointer. _Seventeen seconds_. However, he is blocked by the opposing team's member. _Fourteen seconds._ Hyuuga passes to Kiyoshi, who catches the ball easily. _Twelve Seconds._ Kiyoshi drives past an opponent. _Ten Seconds._ The opponent attempts to go after him, but his path is blocked by Koganei. _Seven seconds_. Kiyoshi is in the vicinity of the hoop. However, the opposing team's ace marks him. _Five seconds._ Kiyoshi does a convincing fake, and the ace falls for it. _Three seconds._ Kiyoshi dunks the ball. _Zero._

67 - 66

I could make out the ring of the buzzer.

_Did it end?_

A supersonic snap retrieves my consciousness from deep within my stupor. This, however, fails to do any good. The pain and nausea returned stronger than before.

_Shit._

"Hey, we won! Thanks for helping out." Aida's grin maxes to a hundred percent. Cheer is laced with her tone, but this doesn't allow me to reciprocate the same series of emotions as hers. In fact, her chirpiness drills a hole within my mind, complicit to eagerly assisting the migraine.

"Yeah. Congrats. I have to go." I motioned to leave, feeling that nausea would soon take over my resolve. I pace towards the door, telling myself to keep my shit together for a tad bit longer. I could make out a faint call from Aida, but I could no longer make sense of her words through the thumping of my brain. I wave to her.

As soon as the pang of the outside's cold air hits my face, I begin to run towards the nearest comfort room, holding back the impending vomiting. I push through the doors, then into the nearest cubicle. As soon as I close the door, my knees hit the cold tiled-floor.

The scent of acidic bile merged with semi-digested food rose from my mouth, as I gag and heave forward. It feels as though a torch of fire has been run against my throat, as the emptiness in my stomach worsened. The disgusting roar for breath and release echoes throughout the whole room. Despite the entire display's inequity, deep within, inscrutable catharsis wafts through the blood within my veins.

I could feel the flame's divine assuagement.


	2. Act II: Favors and Friends

Word of Warning: Contains profanities. Also, this is a flashback chapter.

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**Act II:**

**Friends and Favors**

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The morning on the third Thursday of April, I lay face-down on the dust-coated mattress that I forced into my hideout (A. K. A. the old storage room far behind the gymnasium) when Aida Riko bolts in, asking for a favor. She is pleading if I would be so kind enough to facilitate the basketball team's practice game along with her. Seirin's school board, being not so appreciative with the sudden increase of deposit they have to make on the sports department rather than into their pockets, are not quite _impressed _with the basketball team. And apparently, they require the basketball team to acquire facilitators who have prior knowledge with the game to _avoid_ 'unnecessary losses' (the additional money they have to pay faculty members for overtime if they were to facilitate). I just happen to roughly fit into the mold that they have laid out. And despite my lazy and indecisive arse, facilitating seems like a small price to pay for a tad bit of friendship.

I met the brunette a week before – just after the foundation of the school's basketball team. Not long after I nicked the storage room's key from the faculty office, with much difficulty if I may add, the basketball coach ventured within my little sanctuary in hopes of scavenging usable materials from what the school calls 'sports utilities,' disrupting the peace I loved oh-so much as she went on. I, deciding that she _was_, by any means, _not_ stopping anytime soon, cut my nap short and _eagerly _assisted her in desire, to make the noise stop as soon as possible. This, of course, was considered to be the good thing to do. Thus, allowing me to make a good first-impression!

'_People help each other out, right?' _throwing a mental question towards my general direction. Pushing myself upwards into a sitting position, I lock my gaze with her light-brown orbs.

'_The eyes are windows to the soul,'_ according to the eternally revered romanticist, Shakespeare. Despite the sayings' overly-uttered or written words, it, I believe, is _too _true. An individual _can _be determined, albeit not so easily, by the look in their eyes. Her eyes remind me of honey – _hardened honey – _like those overly-sweetened-but-actually-okay lollipops you get in the cheap, cheap price of free from the nice old lady that lives across the street.

I pat the empty spot next to me. "Take a seat." Clouds of dust rise from the mattress' surface. Aida grimaces upon the sight.

"I'd rather not," She refuses kindly, offering me an apologetic smile moments later.

"Enjoy the pleasures of resting your body against the dusty mattress, I always say." I return her smile with one of my excruciatingly awkward ones. Aren't girls supposed to be good with faking smiles?

_Well, shit. _

_Congratulations, you just had a very enlightening conversation with yourself, Maiko. Great, just great._

"I fail to see the _pleasurable _part about bathing in dust," the brunette utters jokingly.

However, despite her protest, she places herself next to me anyway. I can hear her groan, as she stretches her appendages, "This _does _seem quite nice."

"Told you so." I reply almost immediately.

I bounce backward, allowing my back to come in quick contact with the mattress. Thick clouds of dust mingle with the humid air of the fading summer. Aida coughs not long after, followed by my giggles and a brief apology. I sprawl myself on the mattress. Allowing my eyes to shut, I secretly hope she forgets about her little favor.

And as if on cue, she pierces the silence that stretches between us, "About the facilitation – your decision?" Her tone, at least an octave lower, gives her an air of concentration and urgency. As a coach, Aida seems to turn into an entirely different individual. I admire that.

"I-" I mentally curse as I stutter – something I do too often, "I'll think- about it."

Ignoring the awkward pauses of my reply, her brows knot ever so slightly, as dissatisfaction pools within the brunette's orbs. She attempts to mask everything with a smile, and a sweetheart's tone. "Please," she almost begs (Note: _almost_). "You're one of my few _friends _that actually know the mechanics of the game, and I don't have that much friends."

I wince at the specific term she used: _'Friends.' _Not that I have anything against her, and in friendship. Well, maybe a little bit at the latter, but still…

However, I can't help but notice that Aida Riko is an expert at manipulation. I can tell. That line right there – a perfect mix of self-pity and flattery –something you would say to earn (1) Consolation, (2) Acceptance, and (3) Trust, and those three factors are all you need to unlock the Pandora's Box of a 'Yes.' Trust me, I know from experience. I, of course, despite knowing, am not immune to this, especially when my perception is clouded by the great perhaps that peer acceptance offers. Well, won't you look at that? The sky is _hella _cloudy today.

I sit up. Offering her a goofy smile, I sigh. Probably realizing that that is the closest thing she'll get as an 'I agree,' she leaves with an "I'll go back later."

I could only nod.

Positioning my body into a fetal position, I immerse myself within the pleasures of silence; pleasures of which are soon stripped from me by my cellphone's alarm. _God fucking damn – _this _bitch_ sounded like a choir of banshees being analy fisted times infinity.

A groan finds its way out of my mouth, followed by a series of yet another set of ringing bells, this time, signaling the last five minutes before the pandemonium – school – unleashes its wrath among our unfortunate souls. I grab the book bag by my side, and head on my way to class.

Ah, school, where we are *cough* _forcibly _*cough* sent by our _most beloved _parents (_Oh, may the great God bless their souls!_) to (1) ensure that we are capable of effectively cultivating our own paths towards an awesome future of leisure and money, and, (2) learn from an abundant number of wise individuals, who have honed their capabilities and knowledge in a variety of _interesting _fields, and yet we receive, (3) _BULLCRAP._

Speaking of bullcrap, a shitload of it is currently standing right before me.

"Late." Ito-sensei, an old-forty-year-old-maid with a voice that reminded every living creature of the infamous sound of fork against plate, stood just along the doorway towards the classroom, completely obscuring the only way in. "Again."

_How fucking nice - Perfect even._

"I'msorry," I mutter under my breath, looking down.

Like hell I would look her in the eyes – I learned my lesson. First day of school, I could have sworn that those soulless, virgin eyes could have sucked all the remaining youth in me.

She sighs, "Get an excuse slip. _Now._"

Well I had to hand it to her – the woman knows how to feign urgency. Responding with a brief nod, I scurry towards the stairs. Through the empty hallways adjacent to the third-year rooms, I make my way towards the Discipline Coordinator's Office. Greeted by a familiar wrinkled smile, I bow.

The discipline coordinator, despite the common belief, is a nice old man. In estimate, I would say that he's around sixty. His face is round, just like the rest of him (It suits him quite nicely), and his eyes hold obvious wisdom with such humility. He never seems to judge.

I smile, before heading towards the shelves. I take an excuse slip, and ask with the kindest voice I can muster for him to sign the piece of poorly-printed-on paper. After, I head out. I make my way back to the classroom, making sure that each step takes a second longer than it usually does – a futile attempt to impend the unavoidable torture.

The door slides open as I enter. I trace my view over the class briefly, registering the majority's eyes that seem to hollow with boredom. After handing Ito-sensei the slip, I pace to my spot: Third to the last seat at the far right corner, parallel to the windows. _This _is one of the few redeeming points of school. No teacher – and I mean _no teacher_ has ever _cared_ to look at the kids in the middle column. It's either at the back or at the front, solely because they _think _that's where the people who require either academic attention or academic spotlights place themselves.

_Poor little fucks. _

Not a single soul seems to listen as the teacher proceeds with her discussion. However, I, _surprisingly_, pay as much attention as I can, which is not at all that much. But at least I _try._

I may not like the teacher, but I _do _like the subject she teaches: _Mathematics. _Math, like all else brilliant, is only _misconceptionalized_. I mean, what's there to _actually_ hate? Behind each theorem; behind each equation is absolute logic. Although, in all honesty, I do believe that math has this certain amount of complexity – There's nothing wrong with that. Doesn't society immerse itself within the fathomless, yet _breathtaking _oceans of complexity? Is this not why we persevere to continuously take hold of new knowledge, venturing further and further away from the plains of ignorance? Is this not why we learn?

Complexity is beauty.

The topic for the first period is reasonably complicated – A brief review on the basics of Trigonometry – that even a student with _obvious _Math Anxiety would _easily _understand as long as they actually paid so much as fraction of a damn to the prior lessons in the said topic, which is, of course, highly unlikely. Mouths are agape as adjacent, opposite and reference angle are explained, and I could have sworn I heard brains _crack _when we moved on to sine, cosine, tangent and their inverses.

I can't help but wonder about the sudden decline of the intellectual quotient of this generation.

The forty-year-old-unholy-virgin finally notices that most of the class is at complete loss. With a sigh, she skips the derivation and proceeds to the Easy Math – How to easily remember the values without solving. This is yet another thing to love about math: _shortcuts – _yet another thing that _life _greatly lacks.

After an hour, the bells ring, signaling the beginning of the second period. The following two classes register themselves in my mind as nothing but a series of blurs, mainly because, well, I fell asleep.

_Such a hypocrite I am. Then again, people often are – we just refuse to reckon so._

Beneath the heat of the residing summer, I clutch my bento within my grasp, as I make my way towards my hideout. Upon reaching the vicinity of the storage room, I scan the area for wandering faculty members. None are in sight. I persevere to open the goddamned door, but inserting the key to the lock proves to be quite difficult, especially with my palsied hands. With a final cursing session, I manage to open the door. I place myself on top of the mattress, and open my bento.

Omelet Rice… the only meal I can _actually _cook_. _I take my chopsticks, muttering a quick 'Itadakimasu,' before I dig in. Albeit I used to be so addicted with this meal, now it's but a source of nourishment. I never thought that the flavor would dull after I got accustomed to it. However, it couldn't be helped. I finish eating the contents of my bento (accidentally biting the chopsticks multiple times, which are, of course, followed by an arsenal of my cursing sessions).

I check the time: '10:10.' _Twenty more minutes to burn. _

_Burn_.

Everyone that's heard me say so had seemed quite unaccustomed to the term. I wasn't really sure on why. However, to be honest, I never _really _knew where I got it from. I just like the idea of _burning time._

_And burn I do._

I allow my eyes to prance across the room's crowded expanse. The room is mostly occupied by towering stacks of boxes – each surface coated by a thick sheet of dust, much like the rest of the furnishings within the room. Colonies of grime thrive at each and every single corner, and crack of the room. I closed my eyes, as an attempt to fall asleep, and is, _of course, _warranted futile.

What do people do when they try to sleep anyway? It isn't exactly an inquiry you can automatically bring up in a normal conversation without threatening its, _well, _normalness. In fact, I've only asked one person this. My mom. And all she said was "Don't think." And was of course received a response of:

_Mom, no. I highly doubt that that is possible. Thinking is directly connected to life, and if I "DON'T THINK," I'm pretty sure I'd die. People can't not think, mom. Even if they wanted to, and I know they do. Maybe a bit too much. But the thing is, it's IMPOSSIBLE. That's something you probably knew back in the time when you didn't spend every single day practically wasted? Does that ring a bell? OF COURSE NOT, you've killed your essence of sobriety a long time ago anyway. And in case that stratum of logic can't reach your brain, dead things can't ring bells. They're dead. Remember? Dead? The thing I'll be when I "Don't think?" _all of which reached _only_ the back of my throat, and was heard _only_ in the back of my mind. Although I'm pretty sure my mom's cognizance of the bullshit that I practically vomit from my mouth is _lacking,_ ever since she indulged those soporifics, she wasn't stupid. And _I _don't plan on entertaining any thoughts of masochism, nor do I like being bitch-slapped; much less, _drunk _bitch-slapped.

Instead of continuing my internal ranting, I decide to _breathe_, because I presume that's what people do when they can't sleep. And mostly because that's basically all you can do when you're motionlessly lying down the bed and trying to block out the world with your eyes closed. Right? Right.

_Damn, w_ho would have thought that trying to sleep is hard?

**Author's Ubiquitous Angst Zone: **

This.

THIS.

THIS!

.

.

.

.

.

IS JAPANESE LUNCH TIME RUSH!

wat.

Anyways, hello to everyone who read this fic! *drowns you in hugs and kisses*

It might not be much, and the plot might not seem so promising, and my OC might seem so friggin' annoying, but, _uh…_

OH MY FRIGGIN GOSH. I'm sorry but I just think that this fic is so horrible, that I can't even think about any redeeming points. Alas, I shall let you, the readers, be the ever-so-knowing verdict of that.

Ohhohoho~

I do appreciate reviews (Iamactuallyvery,extremelydesperateforreviews). Constructive criticism is encouraged, and, of course, admired. Plus, don't forget to like / favorite the fic!

*throws hearts everywhere*


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